


A Good Day

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Complete, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up Together, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: Fred was first in every way except one, and George never forgot that it was he who first met the girl known as Angelina Johnson.From there, the world takes him on a journey filled with high-stakes quidditch games, higher-stakes war, and a recovery marked by both his lowest and his sweetest moments, one with his greatest loss and greatest love. George's story, from childhood to the man the world shaped him into.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, George Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	A Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not really expecting much from putting this out here. I've been writing this on and off since 2017, and now we're in 2021, and I've just decided to put it out here on the off chance that anyone would be interested in reading it. I wouldn't start writing it now, especially with all the JK Rowling drama these days, but I figure she's not going to profit off of anything I've written, Harry Potter was a huge part of my childhood and writing experience, and it is nice to share something that you have spent time on over the past few years. It's finally complete and around 50k words, which is one of the longer things I've written, so all the more reason to share in case even one person decides they want to read. 
> 
> Anyways, as always, I find the side characters the most interesting of any book because they give you the most room to flesh them out. I thought there would be a story to tell about George's recovery from the War and how he finally ended up at a place where he could marry Angelina and have a child named after his brother, and from there, I just sort of followed the story along. It's not always a happy story, but I think it is one version of what could happen to someone who suffered such a profound loss. And I hope that you think that the ending pays off.

George was never first.

From the very moment of his birth, he arrived second to Fred. It was only by seven minutes, forty-two seconds, but somehow, those seven minutes and forty-two seconds of a head-start seemed to last, a gap he could never quite bridge even as they aged together. At age three, at age seven, at age ten, age eleven, age nineteen, seven minutes and forty-two seconds hardly matters anymore. Seven minutes and forty-two seconds happens eight times an hour, happens one-hundred eighty-four times a day. It’s nothing, except it isn’t, because Fred was always first in an immutable, permanent way, and George was always second, and that was always fine.

Fred was the one who spoke first, calling out for their mum as she hurriedly, tiredly placed them into their crib one night. George spoke a week later, in clearer, more comprehensible syllables, but Fred spoke first, and George spoke second.

Fred walked first too. He took one stumbling step on two shaky feet, then immediately turned back to find his twin. Then George lifted himself to his feet and took his first step, but Fred came first, and he led the way out the door, and he laughed as their parents shrieked upon realizing their two toddlers had vanished from sight.

Fred was the first to use magic (fittingly, a prank on Percy), the first to get his wand, the first to be sorted (F came before G after all), and the first to kiss a girl, the first to receive detention, the first to find a secret passageway, to explode a cauldron, to sneak out of bounds, to cross the line. Most of the things in their lives they did together, but even then, Fred came first, even if only by a hair.

Fred even preferred the first son in their large family. He followed Bill around the Burrow like a wide-eyed puppy as soon as he could walk, listened in rapture to Bill’s stories from Hogwarts once Bill left, and admired Bill’s adventurous charm, his outgoing, occasionally rebellious acts (but never too rebellious, and Fred scowled the day Bill was named prefect, and again the day he was named Head Boy). George chose to follow the second son, Charlie. Charlie was just as adventurous as his elder brother, but a little more easy-going, a little less glamorous. When George could walk, he liked to spend his little time away from Fred with Charlie. He followed Charlie outdoors as they roamed the countryside, rescuing a stray bird or a gnome. George didn’t mind when Dumbledore named Charlie prefect, because Charlie was also named Quidditch Captain as well, and the cool factor of Quidditch Captain far outweighed the disappointment of prefect. Percy, they unanimously agreed, was the most disappointing of their siblings, even more so than Ron or Ginny, who were both younger and too easily flustered for their own good.

Fred was first in every way except one, and George never forgot that it was he who first met the girl known as Angelina Johnson.

They’d split up an hour into their first ride on the Hogwarts Express. Fred, armed with two dung bombs he’d saved from his birthday gift from Charlie, left for the back of the train, intending to cause the diversion which would allow George to sneak into the prefect’s compartment and dye all of the Slytherin prefects’ paraphernalia red (they had no doubt they’d be joining Bill, Charlie and Percy in Gryffindor—if Percy could make it in, so would they all). So they abandoned the compartment they’d snagged at the beginning of the ride and split, each going their own way.

George needed to wait for the initial distraction, so, without much forethought or care, he slid into the compartment just across from the prefect’s room. He kept his eyes trained on the window, waiting for the moment, the bang, and the frantic scurry of people down the hall. The compartment’s initial occupants never even crossed his mind until one of them cleared her throat sharply.

“Excuse me, but who are _you_?”

He swiveled his gaze from the window to the interior and found three sets of curious eyes on him. Three girls in fact, one with fair, freckled skin and dirty-blonde hair and inquisitive eyes, one with ochre-colored skin and frizzy locks held in tight braids, and another whose skin was nearly as black as her hair. It was the third girl who had spoken, and the third girl whose eyes glimmered with accusation.

He didn’t have time for these girls. He couldn’t afford distraction, not for their first prank of their Hogwarts career. They had a reputation to establish, after all.

“George,” he said dismissively, and returned to his watch post.

“George who?”

It was the third girl again. He sighed and said, “George Weasley.”

“Well, George Weasley, do you mind explaining why you barged into our compartment?”

Now that question he could handle. He smirked. “If you wait, any moment now you’ll see. Any moment…”

The girl’s eyes burned with frustration, but at that moment, a large bang, followed by several loud shrieks, echoed down the train. He watched as all the prefects stuck their heads the door, then as one by one, they caught wind of the scent and began a quick stride down the hall.

“Excuse me, girls,” he said, and scampered across the width of the hallway and shut himself inside the now vacant compartment. He performed a quick scan of the possessions strewn around, at the various documents and books and items of clothing littering the seats. Several of those objects were ties or scarfs, and he snagged the green ones and muttered the spell he’d been practicing ever since receiving his wand.

“ _Mutatum rosum_ ,” he said, flicking his wand just he remembered, and grinned in delight as the color of the scarf he held shifted in a gradient from green to a sort of muddy brown and finally, slowly, to red.

Not as fast as he’d hoped, but certainly workable.

He’d almost finished with the last of ties when the thunder of footsteps down the hall, accompanied by Charlie’s distinctive bass voice and Fred’s protests of innocence alerted him that his time was rapidly vanishing. Without hesitation, he sprinted out and barged once more into the compartment across the hall, sliding easily into his seat.

“You again?” Now the girl with the braided hair spoke.

“Look,” he said, “I can explain.”

And he meant to, he really meant to, but at that point, someone entered the compartment uninvited for a third time, and George met the skeptical gaze of his second-eldest brother.

“George,” said Charlie, “What did you do?”

George realized that one of Charlie’s hands was wrapped securely around the neck of Fred’s hood. Fred made eye contact and slowly shook his head, indicating that the diversion had succeeded thus far.

“Nothing.” He assumed his most innocent, naïve air. “I’ve been in here the whole time.”

“Without Fred?” said Charlie incredulously.

“What, like we can’t be apart? Honestly, you’re nearly as bad as Mum, always confusing us with each other.” He inhaled, preparing himself to play his brother like a well-strung fiddle, but a strong, powerful voice interrupted his preparations.

“He’s been here the whole time.”

Every head in the room turned to see the third girl, the one who’d first interrogated him earlier, facing Charlie with her chin jutting forward, mouth set in a determined line.

“And you are?”

“Angelina,” said the girl. “And this is Alicia”—she gestured to the one in pigtails—“and Miriam.” The girl with the blonde ponytail, Miriam, nodded slowly.

“Is that so?” Predictably, George could see as different instincts warred within his brother. Years of living together had given Charlie (and everyone else in their family) a healthy dose of skepticism when it came to him and George, but on the other hand, who was Charlie, a prefect required to behave responsibly, to question the word of a fresh-faced first year girl he’d never met before?

“I don’t need help to set off a dungbomb,” said Fred petulantly, tugging on the piece of robe still clutched in Charlie’s hand.

“He really has been here,” insisted Angelina. “Came in here after Fred split off.”

Charlie stared George, then at Angelina, then at Fred, and then back to George. Finally, resigned, he sighed. “Mum’ll kill me if both of you get expelled before you’re even sorted,” he muttered. He gave George one last, hard look, before turning to Fred. “And you’re coming with me.”

The compartment door slammed, leaving George alone with Angelina, Alicia and Miriam.

Now it was George’s turn to ask the questions. “Who are _you_?” he asked Angelina.

Angelina shook out her smooth dark hair. “Didn’t you listen? I said my name was Angelina.”

“Yeah, but who are you? And why did you lie for me?”

“I don’t know. Seemed like you could use the help.”

His ears burned. “I don’t need help. Especially not from some girl.”

Angelina’s nostrils flared, and an overwhelming urge to step back overtook him, one he barely managed to combat. “Is that so?” She flung a piece of fabric onto the empty seat beside her. “I’m sure you didn’t need this then.”

He peered down and sucked in a quick breath. The fabric was actually a tie, a Slytherin tie. He must have carried it over in his rush to escape.

“You hid this?” he said, eyes widening in disbelief.

Again, she shrugged. “Should I not have?”

“No, no, it’s just…” He shook his head, then met her gaze with a wide grin, held out his hand. “Let’s start again. I’m George Weasley. I think we’re going to be excellent friends.”

Miriam rolled her eyes, but Angelina studied him closely, as if assessing and deconstructing the boy who stood before her. She lifter her hand, hesitated, but then grabbed his in a firm handshake. “Why don’t you tell me what you really did back there? And you better make it worth it.”

George’s smile just grew wider. “Oh, it’ll be worth it,” he said, and took his seat.

If George had worried about cementing a reputation at Hogwarts, those fears dissipated quickly. After being sorted into Gryffindor, he and Fred swiftly established themselves as the bane of McGonagall’s existence. Five detentions between them in the first month, followed by another three the following weeks even as they learned their way about the castle. Their mum sent a Howler to them in November, and by December Charlie had received one too for his inability to curtail their behavior.

Poor Charlie. He would have felt bad for his brother if he hadn’t been having so much fun.

Then, in December, they found their greatest prize of all: The Marauder’s Map. It took them nearly all of the holiday break to crack the security on the thing, but by the time they returned, they had access to the castle in a way they never had before.

Their first foray into the passageway by the one-eyed witch led them straight into the cellar of Honeydukes. To two eleven-year-olds who’d grown up with little spare money for sweets or treats, their discovery was almost too intoxicating. They shoved candy into their trousers and pockets, as much as they could cram into the folds of the fabric and slipped back into the castle before anyone was the wiser. They stashed their ill-gotten loot in their trunks, concealed by a bit of magic too clever for most first years, then swore to keep their knowledge a secret, lest someone block the passage.

Except, in March, George descended from the first-year boys’ dormitory early one morning to find Angelina Johnson sitting somberly off to the side. In her hand she clutched a letter with clenched fingers, though she wasn’t looking at it. Instead, she appeared to be almost fascinated by the rather dull tapestry of Sir Montague of Porth, who’d been knighted for his deeds in the 12th century only to be executed after it was discovered his “miraculous” victories were made possible by magical means. Sir Montague’s face was ill-proportioned and crudely sewn, but he had been a Gryffindor, so up his tapestry stayed.

As for Angelina, they’d become friends over the past several months. After Professor Snape forcibly separated Fred and George in potions class, George had taken to sitting next to Angelina, where he liked to whisper snide remarks and jokes until she could no longer maintain her composure. More than once, she’d spilled her potion in surprise at a particularly well-aimed crack. She was also one of the few other first years who could keep up with him and Fred on a broom during flying lessons, which was impressive given that they’d learned from Charlie whom everyone said had a decent shot at playing for England after graduation.

She wasn’t his best friend—she certainly wasn’t Fred—but he liked her well enough, and he knew her well enough to know when something was wrong.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, sidling up to her casually. “Did Professor Flitwick say your levitation charms were too wobbly? I promise, he’s just a hardass. And Charlie still drops things from time to time—I’ve seen it.”

Angelina shook her head but said nothing.

“Or was it that git Blakely from Slytherin? Because if he’s being a prat, Fred and I have been practicing this nasty little hex and we could always use some target practice.”

Angelina swallowed hard, clutched the letter to her chest, and spoke softly. “My mum wrote. Grandma Johnson died yesterday.”

Well, perhaps it was for the better that he saved his joke about Myrtle trying to drown herself in the toilet. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say in its place, though.

Death was a rather distant concept to him at eleven. He knew abstractly that he and Fred were named for their late uncles Fabian and Gideon in a roundabout manner, and he possessed vague recollections of Grandma Weasley, a rather snippy elderly woman who pinched his cheeks unpleasantly. She’d died six years ago, too early into his life for him to understand or process her loss. He’d witnessed a bird crash into the burrow, never to move again.

Death, he knew. But he didn’t understand loss.

“Well, that’s bollocks,” he said in the end. “World’s really gone to spare, hasn’t it?”

A ghost of a smile flitted across her face, only momentarily. “It’s just crazy. I saw her over Christmas, and she looked fine, you know? Talked about teaching me to bake this summer, which I would’ve hated, but still.”

He shuddered. “I’d probably run off to Egypt. My older brother’s there, working as a cursebreaker. The mummies might get me, but I’d take that over baking. Mum never let me, or Fred do anything fun in the kitchen—said we couldn’t be trusted with knives.”

“Think your mum had the right idea,” said Angelina. “Didn’t you nearly cut off Avery’s finger in Herbology last week?”

“Not my fault he’s got twiggy fingers. If he wants to keep them, maybe they shouldn’t look so much like a bonsai branch.”

Angelina giggled a little. Nothing like the full-blown laughter he usually elicited, but not a complete failure either.

“You think people can be part bowtruckle? Because if anyone is, it’s him. He’s even got that flaky skin. Bit like a birch tree.”

“I don’t reckon bowtruckles would have enough in common with humans.”

“Hmm, perhaps you’re right. Besides, Percy’s a human, but it doesn’t stop him from being a right eyesore. And an ear-sore. You’re lucky you never had to share a bathroom with him—man puts Moaning Myrtle to shame.”

Angelina giggled again, and her hesitant smile stretched to her eyes. “Is he that bad?”

“I don’t know how we’re related,” he said, putting on his most serious expression. “Someone must have swapped him out at birth—no way Fred and I have a connection to someone with that much of a stick up their arse.”

“Or maybe a bowtruckle crawled up there instead.”

He laughed, a little louder than necessary, but he didn’t mind exaggerating if it could offer some comfort.

“I think we’ve cracked the case,” he said. “Only took eleven years, but we’ve done it now.”

Eventually, though the laughter died away, so did her smile, and he realized it might require more than a few jokes to patch the holes. So, he decided to take some extraordinary action.

Sneaking around the Honeydukes cellar midmorning carried more risk than they’d taken before. Save their first time, when they hadn’t known the final destination of the passageway, they’d only visited Honeydukes at night, after the shop closed. Luck sided with him that day, though, and he arrived at an empty cellar which remained empty even as he rummaged around for the pink coconut ice he recalled Angelina liking. She’d received a package of it for her birthday near the start of the first term.

When he returned to the Gryffindor common room, he found that the crowd there had grown considerably. Several people now surrounded Angelina, including Alicia and two other girls from their year, Priya and Emily. Before he could join them, he was accosted by Fred.

“There you are,” said Fred, dragging him off to the side. “Where have you been? I woke up and you were gone, and Angelina said you’d talked to her and disappeared.”

Wordlessly, George opened his robe to reveal the bag of candy. Fred’s eyes widened in realization.

“You snuck out?”

“Figured she could use some cheering up,” he said.

“People are going to wonder how you got it,” hissed Fred. “They’ll figure out we’ve been leaving the castle.”

“Let them suspect then,” he said. “I doubt anyone’ll complain, not as long as we’re bringing back the good stuff. Besides,” he added, “If anyone snitches, we know to deal with them.”

Fred’s eyes gleamed, and George knew he succeeded.

“Too right you are, Georgie. Besides, I think Charlie’s trying to keep his nose out of our business. Gives him more of a way out when Mum questions him.”

The pair of them emerged from their little corner and ventured towards the cluster of girls. Priya and Emily both yelped a little in surprise, but Angelina just looked at him steadily with an expression that made him feel far older than his meager eleven years.

“What is it?” she asked.

He held out the bag. “Just a little surprise to help cheer you up.”

Angelina accepted the bag with skepticism, but skepticism transformed into wonder as she recognized the contents within.

“How did you…where did you…?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” he said, a little smugly.

“Can’t reveal all our secrets now,” added Fred.

“I mean, what good is a secret if it—oomph.”

His reply was smothered by Angelina’s sudden embrace. At eleven, she actually stood taller than him, her nose nearly at forehead level, and her shoulder muffled his mouth. Her hair smelt a little like lavender, he though, reminiscent of the times he’d been forced to assist his mum in the garden.

It was, he realized, the first time he’d received a hug from a woman not related to him by blood. Had circumstances been different, he might have expected teasing or a little ribbing, either from Fred or from one of the other boys in their year, Lee, who was definitely the coolest one of the bunch. A hug? From a girl? Gross.

Except when Angelina pulled away, her eyes bright and full of gratitude, he didn’t feel gross at all. In fact, he felt quite the opposite, though he wasn’t sure he’d learned the words to express the emotion just yet. It was a little like being struck by a wobbling levitation charm.

“Thank you, George,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “And especially not to Percy.”

Angelina smiled, a little mischievousness slipping in. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Their second year at Hogwarts, was even better than the first, not least because he and Fred joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team. After the departure of several former team members who’d graduated, including their old captain and seeker, Charlie, a chaser, and the two beaters, the new captain, one Oliver Wood held open tryouts for the whole team.

After the tryouts, Wood pulled them aside and said that he really wanted them on the team, along with Angelina, but he wasn’t sure how some of the older members would feel about so many second years. Oliver was himself only in his fourth year, a little young for a captain, even if he more than compensated for his age with his alarming Quidditch obsession and prodigal keeping ability.

George wanted to tell the older members where they could shove it—it wasn’t his problem if they couldn’t keep up with students several years their junior—but he also didn’t want to anger Wood too much just yet, especially when they had just barely scraped by onto the team.

In the end, Wood took both him and Fred (no use keeping one without the other), but left Angelina behind.

“It’s fine,” she said stiffly when the announcements were posted. “There’s always next year, I suppose.” And she marched off with Alicia, who’d also missed making the team.

He was disappointed, but not so much that it tempered his own enthusiasm at making the team. Charlie made the team in his second year as well, and even if he’d chosen to waste his Quidditch talent by running off to Eastern Europe to study dragons, it was certainly a sign in their favor to make it so young.

Despite their innate ability, Fred and George needed to work hard to compensate for both their size and experience. While not small for their age, few twelve-year-olds matched the physique of someone three, four or five years their senior, and they were not the exception. Furthermore, Oliver Wood insisted on using _strategy_ during their games, forcing them to memorize tactics and formations instead of just winging it, the way they’d learned to play outside the burrow.

Their natural instinct told them to buck the rules, but they tried, they really did. Not everyone appreciated the effort. Marvin Bailey in particular.

Marvin was older, a sixth year, and from the first day, George surmised he still held a grudge against McGonagall’s decision not to name him captain. After two weeks on the team, George had a quill and parchment poised to write a thank you letter to his head of house for her decision. Marvin was a fine chaser, better than average, but he glowered and sulked at the slightest inconvenience. He resented Fred and George in particular, both for their age and their style, and he complained vocally about them, even after they’d proven their worth in the first match of the year.

As the weather cooled and dampened, so did Marvin’s mood. Even Wood, who normally couldn’t see something two feet in front of him unless said object was a quaffle, noticed the unrest. The week before their second match, this time against Hufflepuff, Marvin nearly collided with Fred midair.

“Watch where you’re going!” shouted Marvin.

“I wasn’t moving!” yelled Fred back. “You were the one acting like a deranged bludger.”

“Wouldn’t have to fly like that if you’d control the bloody bludgers,” retorted Marvin.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It takes most of my energy not to confuse them with your head,” said Fred.

And then Marvin flew at Fred, a straight shot. Fred barely dodged Marvin, only avoiding him through a last-second barrel-roll.

“BAILEY!” shouted Wood. “Are you trying to take our beater out _before_ the match?”

Quite frankly, George didn’t think it should have mattered whether the attempted homicide occurred before or after the match, but he wasn’t going to debate it.

“You heard what he said,” spat out Marvin, malicious eyes still trained on Fred.

“It doesn’t matter what he said,” said Wood, who’d flown over from his spot near the hoops to better ream him out. “You cannot physically assault one of _our own team_!”

“We could do better than him anyways,” said Marvin. “He’s twelve, looks like he could be eight. It’s a miracle he can even hit the bludger.”

“It’s not so miraculous if I’ve done it hundreds of times before,” interjected Fred. “Plus, if I look eight, then isn’t is more humiliating if I’m a better player than you?”

Marvin charged again, and this time Wood and one of the other chasers, Dan Mikaelson, physically grabbed the tail end of the broom to keep him from assaulting Fred.

“OUT!” roared Wood, and he was as angry as George had ever seen him. “Everyone, practice is done! Bailey, I will speak to you alone. Fred, you as well.”

Everyone hit the ground and made their way slowly and silently to the changing rooms, ears keenly listening for the reaming out Wood was about to deliver. Sure enough, Wood’s shouting began the second they disappeared around the corner, but they could still pick out certain choice words, enough to piece together the gist of the conversation. Mikaelson winced as several Gaelic idioms emerged from Wood’s mouth.

“He only does that when he’s really angry,” said Ingrid Bletchley, the third chaser. “Something his grandfather taught him, apparently. The Scottish side.”

“Also, just to be clear, we all think Bailey’s stark raving mad. We don’t blame you at all,” said Mikaelson.

“Gee, thanks,” said Fred. George nudged him with his shoulder. “It’s good to know there’s still some sense out there.”

They all changed together, but the others slowly left, taking advantage of the shorter practice. Fred and George lingered around, tapping their feet and idly shooting sparks up their wands. Finally, Wood emerged into the dressing room, face splotchy and pale with fury.

“Bailey’s not on the team for the next match,” he informed them flatly. “Don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

George wanted to add that Bailey’s behavior today was only a more extreme manifestation of the feelings he’d harbored all year, but he held his tongue.

“So, who’s playing chaser then?” asked Fred.

Wood sagged defeatedly. “I don’t know. We have alternates from past years, but none of them are ideal. There’s a reason they didn’t make the team this year.”

“How about Angelina Johnson?”

Fred and Oliver both turned to him.

“Who? The other second year girl?” asked Oliver.

“Sure, she’s a second year, but she’s better than Bailey,” said George. “And she’s a fast learner, based on the flying lessons we had last year.”

Oliver carded his fingers through his hair. “Another second year…”

“If she gives us the best chance to win, then it shouldn’t matter what year she is,” said Fred, jumping in. “Besides, Mikaelson and Bletchley have enough experience between the two of them. We’ll keep the bludgers away.”

Oliver considered the proposal for a minute, and George crossed his fingers that Oliver would see reason.

“She gets a tryout tomorrow,” he said at last. “With me and the other chasers. We need to see how she’ll work with them.”

“She’ll be an upgrade from Bailey, I promise that much,” said George.

“I’ll make the decision there,” said Wood sternly, but the gleam had returned to his eye and George thought the deal was as good as done.

He and Fred found Angelina in the common room later that night and promptly sandwiched her on the couch.

“What do you two want?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fred. “Eternal gratitude might be nice.”

“Undying appreciation,” added George.

“But we’d settle for a thank you note—

“--maybe even flowers.”

Angelina narrowed her eyes. “What would I be thanking you for exactly?”

“Don’t hold your breath, but Gryffindor’s very own Quidditch captain is going to offer you a special tryout for the team, in time for the match next Saturday,” said Fred.

“Ha, very funny you two.”

“We’re quite serious,” said George, and he leaned in closer. “Truly, we are.”

Some of the skepticism drained from her face. “But why me? And how are you two involved?”

“Bailey’s off his rocker. I mean, he always was, but he fell off the deep end at practice and Wood booted him from the team for now,” said Fred.

“So I suggested you as a replacement.”

“George doesn’t get all the credit,” said Fred. “I’m the one who finally drove Bailey out.”

“Please, he was going to crack like an egg even before you said anything.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t hurried it along, it might not have happened until after the match, and—

“Can you two just be quiet for a second?”

Both he and Fred look at each other. “All right,” they said in unison.

Angelina closed her eyes. “I swear, if either of you two are doing this as a stupid prank, then—

“Johnson!”

Wood’s voice rang clearly throughout the common room. Several heads swiveled in his direction.

“Johnson, can I have a minute?”

Angelina turned to George. “You’re serious?”

George shrugged. “Ask Wood.”

They watched as Angelina rose shakily to her feet and followed Wood to a corner table, then as her face burst into a wide grin and she squealed with delight. Wood’s own expression lit up as he recognized the same enthusiasm in another player.

“Just hope it works out.”

George glanced back at Fred. “Of course it will.”

“I think it will too, but sometimes it’s hard to know with Wood.”

George shook his head. “Nah, he might be a tad crazy—

“Just a tad?”

“Okay, the man’s obsessed and can’t see reason. But he can see Quidditch talent, and she’s got it all right.”

“That she does,” agreed Fred. They watched as Oliver and Angelina continued to talk, and George recognized the moment where Oliver transitioned from casual conversation to full on diatribe. He stood.

“I think this might take a while. Bloke’s going to bore her to death before she even hits the pitch.”

“Too right you are,” said Fred. “We should find Lee. He told me he ‘discovered’ a new way out of the castle. Probably something we found our second week, but you never know.”

And George followed Fred up to the boy’s dormitory to meet Lee.

In the end, Gryffindor lost the match to Hufflepuff, a heartbreaking 250-180. But Angelina had comported herself admirably, and Oliver announced his decision to keep her on the team permanently during their next practice.

The next fall, Alicia Spinnet joined the team, along with Katie Bell, a chatty yet sensible second-year, and some nobody by the name of Harry Potter. Even from their first practice, George sensed the chemistry, young as they were. And though George had never lacked for a family growing up, he suddenly found himself with a true second family which filled a different place in his heart. The team, along with Lee who slotted himself in easily enough, provided yet another layer of support, of confidence. Together, George felt nigh invincible.

If the prettiest girl in the whole school happened to be a part of his newfound family, well, that was just a bonus.


End file.
